


these days.

by lamourestout



Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: Background Elu, F/M, Gen, Panic Attacks, Past Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:42:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22107271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamourestout/pseuds/lamourestout
Summary: arthur broussard, summer 2019.*warning tags are for ch. 4
Relationships: Arthur Broussard & Basile Savary, Arthur Broussard & Eliott Demaury, Arthur Broussard/Alexia Martineau
Comments: 10
Kudos: 79





	1. one.

“Eliott?” He can say single words without slurring, so that’s a positive, at least. And since he’s sat down, the world isn’t spinning around. Another positive. He shouldn’t have called anyone, he should have just stumbled around until he eventually found his way home. 

“Arthur?” Eliott must have seen his name, caller ID is a magnificent thing, and he can tell the other has just woken up. There’s shuffling around, and his voice is quiet. 

“Sorry. Do you have a car?” It’s taking every ounce of sobriety left in his body to keep his words almost not slurred. 

“I can have a car.” Arthur thinks he can hear a tiny click of a door. 

“I don’t know where I am. I don’t know who else to call.” He doesn’t even know if he can or  _ should  _ go home right now. If he goes back like this and either of his sisters wake up and see him  _ like this _ , they’ll never think of him in a positive light, ever again. He doesn’t want to be this person around them. 

“Okay. Can you send me your location? The GPS thing?” Eliott seems very collected for ━ Arthur checks the time as he pulls the phone away, to attempt to text Eliott his location, because he sure can’t tell ━ 3:16am. 

“Can try.” He mutters, not even sure if Eliott can hear him. Somehow, he finds it, and sends it. He’s pretty sure he sends it.

“Got it.” Eliott tells him when he has the phone back up to his ear. 

“I’m sorry for calling. You’re probably with Lucas. He doesn’t sleep well. Don’t tell him about this.” He’s losing his containment. Eliott breathes out a laugh.

“I won’t mention it.” Eliott confirms. “It’ll be a little bit before I can get there. Don’t go anywhere.” 

“Okay.” He doesn’t think he can walk much further without throwing up or falling over. He still hasn’t hung up. The door on the other end creaks a little, and he can hear, through what he assumes is Eliott’s hand muffling the speaker, 

“I need to go help a friend. I’ll be back in a little.” Talking to Lucas. He shouldn’t be taking Lucas’ boyfriend away from him. Quiet movements on the other end of the phone line. A click of the door again. Breathing. A quiet tangle of keys. “Arthur? You’re still there?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Good. I’m just leaving, right now. I’m going to hang up so I can drive. I’ll be there in a little bit. Just stay where you are.” 

“Okay.” He doesn’t know what else to say.

“See you soon.” Arthur just nods, forgetting to verbalize, and Eliott hangs up. 

And then it’s silent again. It’s just him and his thoughts and the city of Paris. 

Him and his thoughts and the city of Paris and his dizzy vision and his swimming head. 

His phone buzzes and he looks at the swimming notifications. He thinks it’s probably Basile, but he’s not certain. It takes him a couple tries to swipe it open. Squinting a little, and it takes him a few moments to sort the letters out into their proper order.  _ Where are you? We lost you.  _

_ I’m going home.  _ It takes a lot of concentration to figure out what he’s writing. 

_ Okay. Text me when you get there.  _ Everyone else doesn’t see this side of Basile; he might be a bit out-there sometimes, and he’s definitely said a few questionable things, and done a few questionable things, but he’s never been anything but  _ there  _ for him. 

It’s quiet. All around him. He looks left, and there’s no one on the sidewalk. He looks right, and there’s no one there, either. A rush of cool breeze races over his hot cheeks, deeply flushed from all the alcohol he’s had. It feels nice. 

There are cars on the roads around him, on the blocks one, two to the left, to the right. Headlights on the intersections as middle-of-the-night drivers continue on their journeys. 

He wonders, for a moment, if he imagined calling Eliott. It seems like it’s taking forever (though, likely, it’s been five minutes), and he doesn’t know what to even do while he’s waiting. Plus, he’s trying to figure out why he called Eliott. Maybe he can ponder that while he waits.

Because he couldn’t call Basile or Yann because they’re both drinking tonight,  _ and _ they don’t have cars. And he can’t call Lucas. He doesn’t have a car. Eliott’s the only one who’s a real grown-up and who probably can find him. He can’t call his dad because he needs to sleep. He can’t call his mom because she’s not even in the city. Six months ago he didn’t even know Eliott. How did he take this place in his life.

It’s weird.

It’s nothing weird about Eliott. It’s just him. 

He appreciates Eliott for everything he’s done for Lucas. And, even without Lucas, Eliott is one of the coolest people he’s ever met, and he, just as he’s thinking, realizes that Eliott’s going to see him at a pretty shit point. Drunk and high and lost. 

Great. Smart of him to be like this. 

He keeps staring at the gutter. 

The only thing that could happen to make this more angsty-cliché would be for it to start raining. Which he’s hoping that it won’t do. 

He sits for a long time or, it feels like a long time. He’s not really sure. Headlights finally sweep over him, and for a second he’s blinded, and forgets why there might be a car pulling up in front of him. He stares blankly for a minute, even as Eliott rolls the window down. 

“Are you getting in?” Eliott finally says when he doesn’t move. Eliott has half of a smile on his face. There’s the low hum of music he can’t identify coming out of the speakers. He probably nods and stands, steadying himself a moment before making his way to the curb, and opens the passenger door, gets himself in the seat. Shakily buckles his seatbelt. 

He doesn’t look at Eliott. 

“Sorry for waking you up.” He feels, at most, twelve-years-old right now. 

“You don’t have to apologize. I couldn’t let you sit out here all alone until the buses get back on schedule.” Eliott still hasn’t pulled away from the curb. They’re quiet a moment, Eliott reaches for his phone and messes with his music for a moment. And finally asks, “Where am I taking you?”  _ Fuck _ .

“I don’t know.” 

“I have a couch. At my place.” Eliott offers, immediately. “But you mentioned you don’t want Lucas to know about this.” Eliott reminds him of words he forgot he said but seem likely that he did say. 

“I can’t go home, not like this.” Words slur a little and Eliott seems to be studying him. 

“What’s  _ like this  _ mean?” He thinks Eliott probably knows. 

“Fucked up.” Because that’s what he is right now. 

“What about Basile?” 

“His mom isn’t doing super well right now, I’m not going to impose on them. Same thing applies, I can’t go there like this.” He doesn’t know how he gets all these words out, a stumbling mess. Eliott seems to understand them, though. 

“I don’t know where else to take you.” Eliott still hadn’t pulled away from the curb. “It would be completely okay if you want to crash on our couch.”  _ Our _ . Eliott and Lucas’. EliottandLucas. LucasandEliott. 

He doesn’t know what to say. If he keeps refusing options, Eliott is going to kick him out of the car and he’ll be in the same position as before. Lost. 

“If it’s okay...” He trails off a little. He doesn’t want to invite himself. He doesn’t want to impose. Even though he’s already imposing 

“One hundred percent okay.” Eliott confirms. Finally pulls away from the curb. “And it always takes Lucas hours to get up in the morning so if you really don’t want him to know, you can probably dip before he gets out of bed.” He offers him an out. 

“Okay.” Eliott doesn’t ask him how he got here or what he’s had. He appreciates that; he’s not sure he could actually recall everything. 

“Eliott?” He breaks the silence after a few minutes. 

“Yeah?” 

“I think I might like boys.” It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, and he surprises himself. Apparently drinks  _ do  _ loosen his tongue. 

“That’s okay. Liking boys is completely okay. I mean, personally, I would say it’s magnificent, but...” he trails off a little. 

“It’s — I —“ he has trouble thinking about this  _ sober _ . “Just — I don’t want people to think I’m saying this just because Lucas is out now.” 

“I don’t think he would think that. I don’t think that.” Eliott ponders a moment, “Coming to terms with feelings, especially these kinds of feelings, is always hard. Unless you grow up in a perfect environment, there’s always that struggle and it’s easier, in my experience, when you can see other people like you around you. But even with people who are open and who are out, there’s still a lot of — shit to overcome, I guess. If Lucas being out or, not to think too highly of myself, me being out or Alexia being out, if any of us help you see your attraction in a different, more authentic light or — if you want to ask questions or — anything, I don’t think they would say no. It’s obviously different for Alexia, and even a lot different for me and Lucas because of a million different reasons, but — I’m rambling, sorry, but I’m basically trying to say that it’s okay if you like boys and it’s hard to accept that and I’m here if you want to talk or ask questions or anything.” Arthur listens as closely as he can, drink mind losing a few words in between. 

“Thank you.” He says quietly. “I think — I like boys and girls. But I don’t know. I’ve — barely even kissed anyone. Like I’ve kissed Alexia a few times and maybe we’re together but I’m not really sure if she’s into it. Or if I am or if I’m just —“ he stops himself.  _ Lonely _ . Which is dumb. “Forcing it or something.” 

“Well, don’t force a relationship.” Eliott says. 

“I’m not trying to.” Arthur says. 

“And you don’t have to know everything all at once. If you think you like boys and girls, that’s completely okay. You don’t have to have a track record to prove it. Anyone who says you do is stupid.” 

“If I don’t remember this stuff when I wake up can you tell me it again?” Arthur asks, after letting the silence start to grow again. “And can you not tell anyone?” He nearly whispers. 

“Of course. Just ask.” Eliott tells him. “And I would never tell anyone unless you said I could.” He’s grateful. 

“I’m afraid that if my mom’s a lesbian it means she doesn’t love me or my sisters.” He blurts it out, after they silently drive past another city block. He wants to take it back. 

“ _ If? _ ” 

“I don’t know if she is. She has a friend, Catherine. But they travel together and are really close and I don’t want her to not love me.” He’s really pathetic tonight. Eliott barely knows him, at least on his own, without Lucas. Maybe it’s easier to say it to someone he knows less. 

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, what he’s thinking. 

Maybe he’s  _ not  _ thinking. 

Eliott stops at a red light and turns towards him for a minute, studying him. Arthur doesn’t like it; Eliott is intense sometimes and he looks away, looks in the side mirror and at himself but he almost doesn’t recognize the reflection. 

“I’m sure she loves you. And your sisters, even if she is a lesbian. You’re still her children.” Eliott pauses, pulls away from the light, “Are your parents together?” He asks cautiously. 

“They were. They’re not anymore. Mom travels for her work and so we don’t see her a lot. And so we live with Dad. He’s fine. I understand everything and I get it if my mom’s a lesbian that she would want to be with Catherine and not my dad but Ophelié is only ten and I don’t know if she understands everything or why Mom isn’t around or —“ he cuts himself off when he realizes he doesn’t quite know where he’s going. “Sorry.” He mutters. 

“You don’t need to apologize. Sometimes hearing yourself think out loud helps. I mean, I’m not a therapist, but I’ve sure as hell been to enough therapy sessions to know that talking about stuff can help.” Eliott doesn’t offer anything else.

“Do you think she loves us?” He asks. 

“Has she ever said she doesn’t?” 

“No.” He doesn’t know if someone has to say they don’t love you for you to know they don’t. 

“I would just keep thinking that she does love you. I’m sure she does.” He knows that Eliott can’t really help him, he doesn’t know any of the details. But it feels a bit better to get some of this stuff off his chest. 

“Thank you.” He’s saying as Eliott catches him on the stairs, nearly tumbling down a flight backward when he loses his balance. 

“Let’s just get you lying down.” Eliott says quietly. He’s quiet in his movements, opening his door, pointing Arthur to the couch, finding a blanket, a pillow and handing them to him. “Are you good?” He unfolds the blanket for him, for which Arthur is grateful. 

“Yeah.” 

“If you need anything, wake me up. And text me if you leave before we get up, so I know you’re safe.” It reminds him to text Basile, a text that should be quick and easy, a  _ hey, I’m about to sleep.  _ Not a “I’m home” but close enough. 

“Okay. Thank you.” He says again. 

“Not a problem.” Eliott replies, and the bedroom door clicks behind him. It takes Arthur a minute to get his shoes off, find the end table to set his glasses and his phone on. Settle the pillow, blankets so he can kind of sleep. He hears the muffled, low rumble of indecipherable voices through the bedroom door; they’re talking. 

He goes to sleep. 

And he wakes up to coffee and talking in the kitchen.  _ Fuck _ . 

And he has a massive hangover. He’s probably going to die. A move to find his phone, and he nearly knocks his glasses on the floor, but he finds his phone and he finds a text from Basile and one from his dad wondering where he is. Replies to his dad:  _ at a friend’s, be back after lunch.  _ Leaves Basile’s text unanswered for now, he’ll understand. 

He gets his glasses on his face, and sits up enough to fold the blanket as best as he can. Sets the pillow on top of it and leans to pull his shoes on. Blood rushes to his head and he feels dizzy and blood rushes away from his head as he stands and he feels like he might fall over. 

Phone in his pocket and he’s making his way to the kitchen; he has to go through there to leave. 

“Hey. Figured you’d have a shit hangover so —“ Eliott has already gotten out aspirin, and set out a glass of water for him. He tried to say  _ thank you  _ but for some reason his words don’t come out. “We also have coffee.” Eliott offers. Arthur takes the aspirin, drinks some water, and is able to speak again. 

“Thank you.” He feels incredibly awkward, he can feel Lucas watching him. 

“You guys went out last night?” Lucas finally asks, and Lucas knows that they did. An invitation had been extended to the two boys standing across the kitchen. They’d decided, instead, on a quiet night in. 

“Yeah.” He needs to get it back together, stop letting these two see him slipping again. Forces a smile into his face, “Basile seems to think he’s the first person to get a perfect score on his oral exam, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t.” Deflect.  _ Always  _ deflect.

“I don’t think he’s going to get a good score on  _ any  _ oral exam.” Lucas jokes and Eliott nearly chokes on his coffee. It makes him laugh a little, almost genuinely. He hesitates a moment, 

“Can I have some coffee?” 

“Of course!” Eliott is quick to move to pour him a cup. 

“Sorry for waking you, in the middle of the night.” Arthur has to offer his apologies to Lucas, as much as Eliott, because he’s seen the results of Lucas’ sleepless nights. 

“I barely woke up, it’s fine. I’m just glad you’re not sleeping on a bench somewhere.” Lucas’ voice dips carefully into intense seriousness. 

“Seriously, thanks for — the couch.” And aspirin and coffee and not prying. 

“We weren’t using it, so someone may as well.” Eliott sets the steaming coffee in front of him, and he thinks he must look a mess; him in yesterday’s clothes and barely four hours of restless couch sleep and a hangover the size of Russia. 

“Are you heading home right now?” Lucas asks, “I’m not kicking you out, because we can totally amend our plans for today, and just watch a movie or something,” Lucas is looking at Eliott like they’re talking to each other silently, and he assumes they were planning on having some more celebrating school being over couple time, and he’s more than willing to leave. He wants to leave. Let them have their time together. They deserve it. 

“Yeah, when I finish this?” It turns into a question without him realizing it. 

“Sounds fine.” Lucas replies, and all Arthur can think is he’s a fucking  _ mess _ . Lucas and Eliott make casual conversation with him, but neither pries.

He almost wishes they would. 


	2. two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> late june nights are turning out to not be arthur's best look.

“Eliott?” He’s done it again. He’s ended up a little too tipsy, a bit too tired, to figure out the bus schedule or the time and he half-panics because he doesn’t know what else to do. He calls Eliott. Eliott, who’s grown and is going to be in university and must know things. 

“Where are you?” Eliott doesn’t even ask him to explain, and he already hears the jangling of keys. 

“I’ll send you.” It takes a minute, and he finally stumbles to sit on the curb. “Do you have it?”

“Yep. Stay where you are.” Eliott hangs up. 

He downloaded Grindr. That’s how he got here. In some burst of  _ I need to know _ , he downloaded Grindr to find a guy to hookup with to figure out if he liked guys.

He does. That’s not the problem. It’s that he drank a beer and a half, got really, really nervous, and like, he got a bj out of it, but … he thinks that the guy was probably a lot older than the 19 indicated on his profile. He thinks he liked it. He’s not sure, but he doesn’t  _ regret it _ . It just makes him a bit nervous, because he’s not sure the guy was the age he thought he was. He was nice enough, told Arthur his name was Mathias, and didn’t seem to hate Arthur’s inexperience. 

He feels good. Technically, still riding that post-sex high, where his body feels a little light and he could fall asleep pretty quickly. He’d hoped, at least, to get to rest a bit before leaving. Maybe even stay the night. But the guy had had other expectations and, well, it’s his own fault for thinking it was going to be anything more. He stands up, and paces a bit, just to keep himself awake. 

He’s not upset about it. He just thought about it the wrong way. Maybe, he went about it the wrong way. But, he doesn’t regret it. He knows more about himself, now. 

Eliott pulls up to the curb, and almost startles him.

“Hi.” He actually replies this time.

“You good?” 

“Uhh — Yeah.” He thinks he must flush a little. Eliott — knows about sex, but he’s certainly not going to discuss it with him. Eliott chuckles a little, and it doesn’t feel ill-humored. 

“Where am I taking you?” Arthur pauses. It’s late enough that no one should be up at home. 

“Home? I can — tell you the way.” Mostly. Hopefully. As long as he doesn’t get distracted again. 

“Sounds good.” Eliott never asks him things first. Not about the things Arthur thinks he probably needs to talk to people about. Probably because Eliott is one of those people who doesn’t push and just lets things unfold the way they do. Or that’s how he seems. 

“Thank you for coming to get me.” He says. 

“It’s never a problem.” Eliott reassures. 

“Still, thanks.” Arthur repeats, twirling his phone in his hands. He pays attention to the street signs as best as he can. Chews on his lip, and quickly texts Basile, asking if he can go there instead. 

Basile, miraculously still awake, replies:  _ of course! why???  _

Arthur doesn’t have a good answer. Just says:  _ because i want to, lol.  _ And Basile, bless him, doesn’t ask anymore questions. Just says to text him when he gets there. 

“Arthur?” Eliott re-attracts his attention, “Did you hear what I said?”

“No, sorry.” 

“Just wondering if I’m still going the right way.” Eliott sounds so  _ fucking  _ casual, even if Arthur can feel an occasional glance shot his way. 

“You’re good, it’s a — right in like three blocks.” Arthur has to squint a bit to read the street signs. 

“Cool.” It’s quiet in the car this time. Eliott has either not connected his music or turned it down when he got in. 

He squirms a little. 

His phone pings with a Grindr notification. He’s deleting it when he gets home. 

Eliott doesn’t say anything. Maybe he doesn’t recognize it. 

“Have you ever been with someone older?” He doesn’t know what prompts him to say it.

“What do you mean?” Eliott glances his way a moment, an unreadable expression on his face. 

“Like — older. Like —“ Bites the inside of his cheek. “It’s cool to hook up with older people.”  _ Right?  _

“I guess it’s cool to hook up with someone a couple years older than you.” Eliott hesitates before speaking. “I’m a couple years older than Lucas.” 

“No, not like — that. Like —” 

“Did something happen, Arthur?” Eliott sounds concerned. He slows a bit in his driving. 

“No. Just — like someone — a bit older.” 

“I don’t quite understand, you’re going to be to be a bit more specific.” Arthur feels a bit sick. A bit shaky. 

“She was thirty-four.” He admits. 

“Oh.” Eliott lets silence hang a moment, “When was this?” He asks tentatively. 

“Last summer.” 

“So, you were?” 

“Almost sixteen.” 

“Christ.” Eliott mutters. “Arthur, do you understand that that wasn’t right? Whatever happened?” 

“I said it was okay.” Mumbled, but his face is hot and his stomach is churning and he knows he should have told someone who could have done something, but Eliott is the first grown-up he could tell. And Eliott is only nineteen. 

“It doesn’t count if you’re a minor. Especially if she was thirty-four. There was no way you could have given real consent.” Eliott’s voice is serious like Arthur has never heard. Eliott always seems lively and cheery and when he’s down, he often avoids people, so Arthur has never really heard him be deadly serious like this. 

“Okay.” He doesn’t know what else to say. 

“Do you understand?” Eliott’s voice stays serious, speaks his words firmly, so that he makes sure Arthur  _ hears  _ him. 

“Yes.” 

“Have you told anyone else?” Eliott still isn’t driving at the speed limit. 

“I mentioned it — to the boys but I think — they thought it was a joke — I —” he’s quick to clarify, “Kind of presented it like a joke so it’s not their fault.” 

“I’m not saying you have to go to the police. I understand if you don’t want to do that. All I’m going to suggest is that you talk to a professional.” Eliott pauses a moment, turning onto the next road that Arthur points at, “I could help you with that, if you want. Where I go to therapy, there’s lots of people who specialize in a lot of different areas. The lady I go to specializes in like — bipolar and other mood disorders, and she’s really nice. Even when I’m acting like an asshole. There’s lots of people there, and if you don’t like the person you talk to at first, there’s lots of people you could try.” 

Eliott sounds very grown up. 

Arthur feels like a kid. 

Arthur doesn’t know if he wants to go see a therapist. Or see… a  _ professional _ , whatever that would entail. He doesn’t think he should, there are probably others that need the attention more than he does. He’s fine. 

“I’ll text you the address and the website, yeah? No pressure, just so you have it if you want. It’s really cool, they let you schedule stuff online. Which is really nice on like — high-anxiety days.” 

“Okay. I’ll — I’ll look at it.” Arthur will have to think about it.  _ Really  _ think about it. He doesn’t want some dam of repression to break open and ruin his life, so — he’ll think about it. 

“And I would go with you the first time, if you want. The receptionist knows me, now. It wouldn’t be any trouble. So, just think about it. Again, I’m not pressuring you, I won’t say anything else, just text me if you want me to come with you or if you want to talk or anything.” Eliott offers. Considerate, kind. 

“Thank you.” 

“It’s no problem.” Eliott replies. 

“It’s, uhh, right up here.” Arthur says, the familiar outside of Basile’s building creeping up. “You can pull over here.” Eliott does so. 

“Nice to see you, Arthur. See you later.” Eliott tells him as he gets out of the car, thanks him again, and texts Basile quickly as he steps onto the curb, closing the door. Basile says he’ll be right down, and Eliott hasn’t driven away yet, and he feels stupid because Eliott is going to know this isn’t his place as soon as he notices Basile. 

“Baz —” He’s quick to move towards the door when Basile opens the door, and he doesn’t look back at Eliott, but the car sounds like it’s driving away. 

“Is that Eliott?” Basile makes an aborted move to go try to flag him down. 

“Yeah. He was just giving me a ride.” 

“Cool of him to do that. I didn’t know he had a car.” Basile tells him. Treats it like normal. 

“I guess he does.” Arthur just says. Basile gives him a look, but doesn’t say anything about how he smells like beer and doesn’t ask what he’s doing here at his hour. 

Basile gives him shorts, a T-shirt to sleep in, since he clearly doesn’t have any change of clothes. 

They still sleep in the same bed when he sleeps over, never bothering to grow out of the habit, especially when Basile got a larger mattress. 

He has, however, woken up to being almost spooned by Basile a few times. Awkward, but good fun. 

Good blackmail material. 

Basile sleeps restlessly, shifting his position often, full of energy even when sleeping. 

But Arthur knows him well enough to know when it’s  _ getting comfortable  _ restlessness as opposed to  _ sleeping  _ restlessness. This, right now, is the former. 

“Baz?” He whispers. Keeps his back to Basile. He’s nervous about saying it, and so it’s easier to speak to the blurry room, his glasses deposited by his clothes. 

“Yeah?” Basile whispers back. 

“I’m going to tell you something, but you have to keep it a secret.” 

“Okay?”

“I’m bi.” He says, and he  _ knows  _ it’s not a big deal, but it feels like a big deal. 

“Yeah?” Basile replies like it’s not a big deal. “That’s cool.” Basile says. And then, “Did you ever have a crush on me?” Basile asks, and Arthur scoffs, and moves so he can hit Basile’s arm. 

“Shut up. That’s insensitive.” Basile laughs. But it makes him a little less worried.

“I just want to know!” Basile defends himself, and Arthur chuckles a bit. “I think your silence says it all. I hate to disappoint you, but...” Basile teases, and Basile chuckles, and Basile puts him at ease.

“Shut up, Baz.” Arthur mutters, and Basile pushes at his shoulder. 

“You’re sure you don’t want to spoon?” Basile moves closer, and Arthur reaches behind him, and Basile gets smacked in the face. He grumbles and returns to lay down on his side.

“Good  _ night,  _ Baz.” Arthur manages to make his voice decisive. 

“Goodnight, Art.” Basile replies. 

His headache, in the morning, is exasperated by Basile’s little brothers waking them up. Saturday means the boys are up before the crack of dawn, and Arthur will get  _ no  _ rest. Basile’s energy is seen clearly in his brothers, the energy that’s so abundant in their house. 

It’s not even  _ Christmas _ , it’s just one of the first weekends without school, and that’s a holiday  _ enough  _ for them. 

“Arthur!” The boys exclaim when they notice  _ Arthur  _ is there, too. They say many other things, but it’s a mess of words that Arthur can’t make out in his half-asleep state. Basile ushers them out of the room, ordering them to go get food for them, which prompts a scuffle, an argument about who’s better at cooking, and them racing down the hallway to go to their mom, to ask for help to make something for  _ Arthur _ . 

Basile grumbles when he flops down on the bed, finding his phone. 

“They like you better than they like me.” Basile says, as he’s playing with his phone. Arthur stumbles out of the bed with soreness everywhere, a headache, and bleary eyes. He finds his glasses, and his phone, and falls back onto the mattress. “Now, they’re just going to try to show off.” Basile adds.

“The girls do the  _ same thing  _ when you come over, so...” He tries his best to not show how tired he is, how his limbs are fucking lead. Basile laughs. Arthur does his best to look at his texts, including one from Eliott saying,  _ Here’s the link to that therapists office.  _ And:  _ Hope you’re not too hungover, today, lol.  _

“You can go back to sleep, I’ll keep them out.” Basile says after a few minutes. Arthur pushes his glasses up his nose, and looks over at Basile, messes with his phone, spinning it in his hands. 

“I should get going, honestly.” Arthur mutters. Even if he kind of wants to stay here. His eyes fall shut, letting his head roll away from Basile. 

“At least take coffee? You look like death.” Basile says, and Arthur reaches to hit his arm. 

“Mean.” Basile laughs. 

“I mean it, you look like you fucking died last night and Eliott had to like do CPR or something.” 

“Fuck off.” Arthur mutters, taking his glasses off, resting them on his stomach and rubbing at his eyes. He’s  _ tired  _ as  _ fuck _ . 

“ _ Take the coffee _ , then you can go home and die.” Basile says, leaving no room for argument. 

“Thanks, Baz.”  _ Thank you, for everything _ . 


	3. three.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> july is a good month.

Arthur ends June with a girlfriend. 

He asks Alexia to lunch, at a café halfway between their places. When she appears around the corner, she looks like she’s still riding the high of Pride a couple days ago; he had spent way too long staring at his phone, at Alexia and Lucas and Eliott at Pride, and wishing that he could have gone with. That he could have been with them, with paint on his face and flags and people -- all the same as him.

But he couldn’t go, not really. Not at the risk of his father finding out. 

He’s already a big enough disappointment, and he’s trying his  _ best  _ to be a good role model for his sisters, and his father would  _ certainly  _ believe that Arthur at Pride would be more  _ bad behavior _ . 

So, he just stared at the pictures of Alexia and Lucas and Eliott, and sent them messages. 

_ Looks like fun!  _ To Alexia.

_ Awwwww, cuteeeeee _ . To Lucas. 

And he spent way too long trying to message Eliott, especially considering he’s not  _ Lucas _ , and he really shouldn’t be texting Eliott as if he’s trying to confess his feelings for him. He ends up just sending,  _ Pride looks fun! _

“ _ Salut! _ ” Alexia greets him, and there’s a little dance, because they’re not sure how exactly to greet each other, and they settle on a hug. 

They haven’t seen each other in weeks; a weird drop-off, because -- Imane’s party, the busyness of BACs, and suddenly it’s the end of June, and they’ve only exchanged Instagram messages. 

They make casual small talk, as they order sandwiches and coffees, and as they wait for their food. Arthur asks about Pride, and Alexia talks excitedly, telling him how fun it was, and how wonderful it was. 

“You guys looked like you had lots of fun.” Arthur says, and Alexia nods. 

“So much fun. I’m glad I went.” Alexia tells him. 

_ I wish I could have gone _ . Arthur wants to say, but it chokes in his throat. 

“Do you want to be my girlfriend?” He asks, halfway through his food. He feels foolish, asking it, but he doesn’t know how else to do it, how else to ask or confirm or have the  _ boyfriend-girlfriend  _ talk. He bites back the stream of words that want to fall into the air, the ones that say  _ sorry if that’s weird, sorry if i’m weird, sorry that this is a date, and sorry that i’m --  _

Alexia considers him. 

And then her face breaks out into a smile, a beautiful smile, and she says, “Sure.” And then she drinks her cappuccino, and when she sets it back down, she has a little milk moustache.

“Here, you --” Arthur reaches across the table, to wipe the foam off her lip, but he hesitates, because he’s not sure he’s allowed to, but she leans in a little, meeting him, and he does so, lightly. “There.” He says. Retracts his hand, and wipes it on the napkin on his lap. Alexia smiles at him. 

He smiles back, and he feels a little nervous, ducking his head down a moment to look at his food. 

“I’ve never had a girlfriend or --” He stumbles, “ -- yeah. So -- I don’t really know what I’m doing.” He’s on unsteady ground; this isn’t what he normally does. He prides himself on having a plan, he prides himself on knowing all the pros and cons and the facts and figures of everything he’s going through with, and this is new. There’s no roadmap for this. Just nerves and Alexia’s smile and an open future. 

“So, does that mean I get to say whatever I want, and you’ll have to believe me that you have to do that because I’m your girlfriend?” Alexia teases, and he looks up at her. 

“That’s not fair.” He chuckles a little. 

“Nah, I won’t.” Alexia says, “I don’t care if you haven’t dated someone before.” She reassures him. 

It’s reassuring when she takes his hand, once they leave the café. He doesn’t know what they’re going to do now, because he didn’t plan that far. And he doesn’t want her to go home with him, and he hasn’t been to her place, and for a few minutes they just --  _ walk _ . 

He holds her left hand and she holds his right hand, and he doesn’t have to worry about the dull silence that sits on his other side.

_ Veux-tu aller à Le musée des Arts et Métiers avec moi? Comme une date?  _ He sends to Alexia, his fingers all nervous and he doesn’t get a chance to check his phone right away, because Ophélie comes barrelling into the room, fresh out of school, with a new round of stories to tell him about her school day. She jumps on his bed and animatedly tells stories at a million miles a minute. 

“Are you reading to us, tonight?” Ophélie asks, once she’s exhausted her stories. He bites the side of his cheek, because he’s been a bit absent as of recent. 

“Aren’t you two big enough to read on your own?” He teases. And Ophélie deflates a little, and he immediately regrets his words. “Yeah. I’ll read to you two tonight. You haven’t moved onto another novel, have you?” Ophélie’s smile is back, and she shakes her head. 

“Nope! But you have to pick the next one, because we’re almost done with this one!” She bounces a little on the bed, and Arthur grins, because he’s glad she loves reading this much. As much as he does. 

“Of course. Finding the next book for us is the  _ top  _ of my to-do list, yeah?” Ophélie nods in agreement. “Okay, now, you have homework, right?” Ophélie makes a face. “You have to do it, now go. Finish it early, and maybe I’ll read a couple extra pages, okay?” That spurs Ophélie to go, and he hears the faint sound of her shouting to Amélie something about extra reading time. 

He laughs to himself. 

His phone buzzes. 

_ Ouais! When?  _ From Alexia.  _ I’m free Thursday and Friday night.  _

He worries his lip, and his heart jumps and beats fast and his stomach churns with anticipation and excitement whenever her name shows up on the screen. 

_ Thursday works for me.  _ He put a question mark at first, but backspaces, replaces it with a period. 

_ Thursday it is! About 14h?  _

_ Sure! Can’t wait!  _ He sends it, and stares at the emojis for way too many seconds before he settles on sending the red one. 

She sends one back. 

On Thursday, they go to _Le_ _Musée_ , and Alexia and him hold hands, and walk around for hours. 

He used to come here with his mom, back before the girls were born, or when Amélie was still a baby, his mom carrying her around, in the sling over her shoulder, around her chest, so that Amélie could sleep, and so Arthur could be kept close, him dragging his mom around by the hand. 

Arthur was a weird kid; he preferred the quietness of libraries, and museums, and the booming silence of the cinema before the movie started, where everyone was sitting, in tense silence, waiting for the first roar of sound from the feature. 

His interest in science probably stemmed from the hours and hours they spent at  _ Le Musée,  _ the hours and hours he spent pouring over books, and how his mom and him watched  _ Star Wars  _ during the dark, cloudy, summer days of summer break during elementary school. Bright, sunny days were spent at his grandparents, at racing down the beach with his mom, while Amélie sat with their grandfather, under the shade. Science, from how he and his mom would float in the sea and she would tell him about all the animals that live in the sea, and what the sun is made of, and why there are lists all over the kitchen in his grandparent’s house, with counts of how much sugar and other long words that Arthur wants to look up, there are in all the foods that they eat. 

His interest in sci-fi probably comes from the old Asimov books his grandfather has in his house, new when he bought them, but read and re-read by his grandfather, by his mother, by his uncles, by  _ him _ , slowly, slowly. Sci-fi through  _ Star Trek  _ and Ray Bradbury books he got as a gift when they moved to Paris; Bradbury that he held close on the train ride, with his backpack and Amélie, who sat on his lap for a good half of the trip, because his mother was tired, and nursing Ophélie, and his father was busy, elsewhere. On the phone or talking to someone else, or reading the paper, or  _ something else _ , he doesn’t know. 

He stumbled through the first chapter of Bradbury outloud, unfamiliar English words making him pause and fumble, but Amélie hung onto every word, and that’s where it started; him reading to the girls. 

Where it started, his mom dropping Ophélie in his lap and Amélie climbing up onto the couch next to him, and he would read to them, while dinner was cooked. 

Now, it’s half an hour before they go to bed, increasingly complex novels, and he good-naturedly complains about how he  _ always  _ has to read, maybe  _ they  _ should read to  _ him _ . But Ophélie complains, and says that he does the voices, properly, and he does it best. 

Arthur and Alexia walk around  _ Le Musée _ , and for a bit, he  _ only  _ thinks about him and Alexia, and how Alexia doesn’t seem bothered that he knows all the fun facts about half the exhibits. And Alexia kisses him after a particularly passionate description, and he’s a little surprised, but finds himself in time to kiss her back. 

He likes this. He likes this a lot. 

When they get out of the building, Arthur has enough courage to say, “Do you want to get food? I -- I’ll pay?” 

“I’m ordering a steak.” She says, laughing, and Arthur wouldn’t even care if she did. 

“You guys know how you have to behave, right?” They’ve only been on the bus a couple minutes, but Arthur is seriously debating sitting between the girls; they’ve been at each other’s throats the last couple days, he’s on his last nerve with them, but he promised he’d take them to the cinema, and they’re meeting Alexia in half an hour. 

“I’m not doing anything!” Ophélie protests, but he knows she’s been poking at Amélie, and Amélie knocked her over yesterday, and Ophélie ripped up part of Amélie’s diary, and they’re on the verge of breaking out into another screaming and crying match right here, on the bus. He doesn’t know what he’s doing to do if that happens.

“LeLe...” Arthur scolds, and she frowns, and sinks down in her seat. Amélie is keeping quiet, but he knows that her fists inside the pockets of her sweatshirt are clenched, and she’s riled up under her skin. “Okay, so you two are  _ not  _ sitting next to each other in the theatre.” 

They manage not to get into a match on the bus. Or on the sidewalk while they wait for Alexia to come around the corner. 

It’s all okay again, when Alexia greets Arthur with a kiss, and both girls are united again, in their disgust for  _ grown-ups  _ and  _ kissing, ewwwww _ . 

“This is Amélie,” Arthur gestures to Amélie, his arm around Alexia’s waist, casually resting there, “And this is Ophélie.” He gestures towards Ophélie, and Alexia shakes both girl’s hands. “This is Alexia, but you guys knew that.” Alexia looks up at him, a small, questioning smile on her face. “I showed them your instagram. I think Amélie followed you.” He smiles down at her. Her face brightens, and he leans down to kiss her again. 

“I did.” Amélie says, quietly. Arthur chuckles, and breaks away from Alexia. 

“Show her your insta? Maybe she’ll follow you back.” He tells Amélie, and Amélie’s face brightens, and she’s pulling out her phone. Alexia smiles again, and she’s moving away from Arthur to bend over Amélie’s phone, and look at her insta. 

“I think yours is nicer than even  _ Eliott’s _ !” She praises, and Amélie blushes a little. 

“Eliott’s is very pretty, though.” Amélie says, softly. 

“ _ Eliott  _ is pretty.” Alexia teases, and Ophélie hits Arthur’s arm.

“Does she like Eliott better than you?” Arthur scoffs. 

“Noooooo.” Alexia chuckles, though, at Arthur’s immediate denial. 

“I mean, I wouldn’t say no to a --” 

“Ah, ah, ahh --” Arthur stops her, and she grins widely at him. “Let’s not.” Alexia winks at him, and he’s sure his face goes a little pink. 

“What time is it?” Ophélie asks, then, and Arthur is checking. 

“Oh,  _ m-- _ ” Cuts himself off before he swears, “Okay, we have to go in, come on.” 

They tumble into the building, and the girls seem to have already taken a liking to Alexia, and Ophélie finds her voice, asking about Alexia’s hair, how she dyed it, and when she dyed it, and if she’s ever dyed it pink! 

Arthur pays for their tickets, lets them continue their conversation behind him, and he’s so glad the girls aren’t at each other’s throats, he’s so glad they like Alexia, and he’s so glad that Alexia seems to like  _ them _ . 

Arthur picks their seats, shushing the girls as the enter the theatre, sitting himself at the far left entrance to the row, turning to the side so the girls and Alexia can sit down. 

“You have to sit --” Amélie points to the fourth seat in, indicated that Alexia has to sit there, the furthest seat from Arthur, which is a little disappointing, but he knows that the girls hate sitting somewhere that a stranger could sit right next to them, and use him, use their parents, use his friends, as a buffer. 

Amélie begins a quiet, hesitant conversation with Alexia again, as they wait for the lights to dim. 

“How long have you two been dating?” Ophélie leans up to whisper in Arthur’s ear. 

“A couple weeks.” Arthur replies. 

“I like her, so far.” Ophélie tells him. Arthur smiles. He’s glad. 

The sky is still bright when they get back outside, and the sweltering heat hasn’t diminished at all. Ophélie complains, and the girls start up their chant of,  _ “Ice cream, ice cream, ice cream _ !” Because he did, technically, promise them ice cream after the movie. And he thinks he’s going to probably melt if  _ he  _ doesn’t get some ice cream. 

“Okay.... I suppose.....” He teases, and the girls let out an excited cheer. 

“Carry me.” Ophélie says, and Arthur groans, “Come on!” Ophélie asks, and Arthur rolls his eyes, but bends down enough for her to climb on his back, and he stands up straight, and she’s wrapping his arms around his neck. 

“Only a few blocks, though.” He negotiates, because he can’t give her a piggyback as much as he used to be able to. 

“Good enough for me.” She agrees. 

They get ice cream, and Amélie whispers her order into his ear, because she gets shy at restaurants, and hides a little behind him. 

They sit outside, in the shade, and Alexia and him press their knees together, under the table, and she murmurs, “Here, try.” And feeds him a spoonful of her ice cream. 

The girls  _ ewwwwwwwwww  _ again, and it makes him and Alexia giggle. 

“Here, try.” He says, to her, and feeds her a spoonful of  _ his  _ ice cream. “I can take them home, and we can...” He says quietly, eyes ducking down to look at her lips, because he can’t help it. 

Amélie makes a fake gagging sound, and covers Ophélie’s eyes. It causes him and Alexia to collapse into laughter again. 

“I’ll see you later? Call me?” Arthur says, at the bus stop, because the girls have to go home, and Alexia kisses him, wrapping her arms around his neck, and he kisses her back, ignoring the girls’ sounds of childish disgust. 

“Bye.” Alexia says, and kisses him, quickly, as they’re just about to step on the bus. 

He smiles stupidly the whole way home, and only manages to carry on half the conversation with Ophélie and Amélie. 

  
  


_ une visite de la librairie? je connais un endroit. et du café?  _ Arthur proposes as a next date, and Alexia agrees. 

The old bookstore that he frequented on the way home from school, the one that Basile almost got kicked out of one time for being too loud. The old bookstore that has a shelf of wrapped paperbacks that only have the description of the book on them. 

Old, huge stacks of books, and it smells like yellowed pages and ages gone by, and history, and he loves it there. 

They bought the café next door, several years ago, the owners, expanding on their business, and just expanding Arthur’s love for the place. He can sit down with an old sci-fi novel and page through half of it, and if he likes it, he goes back into the store after he finishes his coffee and finds as many of the books by that author that he can, shoving them into his backpack until the zipper bulges and the straps dig into his shoulders with the weight on his shoulders. 

He feels giddy, with Alexia. 

He feels giddy, but nervous, but excited, showing her this place, because it’s special to him, and he wants her to like it, too. 

A wave at M. Michaud, who owns the place, and Arthur worries sometimes, because he looks more and more tired and old as of recently, and Arthur’s heart would break if the place closed down. 

“Arthur, who is this?” M. Michaurd stops them, though, and Arthur smiles widely, and says, 

“Alexia. My --  _ mon petite amie, ouais? _ ” They’re holding hands and Arthur swings their hands a little, and Alexia reaches across the register desk to shake his hand. 

“We have discounts, for dates.” He says, and Arthur rolls his eyes, and he laughs. 

“Okay. More books for me, then.” Arthur agrees, “ _ Merci _ .” He adds, before he and Alexia disappear off into the stacks. 

They kiss against the back wall, and giggle against each other’s lips when they hear footsteps, a middle-aged woman walks past the aisle they’re at the end of, and doesn’t seem to notice them. 

“What is your favorite genre? I don’t think I know.” Alexia asks, once they decide it’s time to actually find books, instead of kissing. 

“Sci-fi.” Arthur answers, automatically. 

“ _ Bah, bien sûr. _ ” She laughs as she says it, and nudges his shoulder. 

“Ah, you?” He asks, and she wiggles her eyebrows at him.

“Guess.” She says, and moves, standing in front of him, and taking a few steps backwards to where their hands, still connected, hang in the air between them. 

Arthur faux-concentrates, narrows his eyes a little in thought, purses his lips, “Ahh.. I think....  _ certainly _ , those cheesy romance novels, the ones with half-naked men on horses, ouais?” He teases, and Alexia scoffs. 

“ _ Non, non _ .” 

“Ah, you don’t like half-naked men?” He smirks, and Alexia rolls her eyes. 

“I didn’t say  _ that _ .” Arthur finds her other hand, and takes a couple steps closer to her. “I just don’t like sexist romance novels.” Alexia finishes.

“Okay. No sexist romance novels for you.” Arthur agrees. Their hands swing a little. “What do you like, then?” 

“I like romance, but -- young adult romance. With queer protagonists.” Alexia tells him, and he nods seriously.

“Ah,  _ ouais _ , of course.” Alexia nods, also, “ _ Putain _ , how did I not guess that?” He teases, and she shrugs. 

“How about...” She starts, “... You pick out a sci-fi novel for me to read. I’ll find a gay book, for you to read.” Arthur laughs a bit. 

“Okay.” He agrees. “We have ten minutes.” He sets, and she makes a face.

“I’ve never been here before! I need at least twenty.” 

“Okay.” He says again, “Twenty.” 

Alexia pushes up on her tiptoes, gives him a quick kiss, and then she ducks past him, and she disappears down the aisles. 

He knows the sci-fi aisles like the back of his hand. Actually, he probably knows them  _ better  _ than the back of his hand. Fingers sliding over the bookends, and he knows what he’s looking for; he has a couple ideas, and probably whatever he finds first is what he’ll grab. 

Twenty minutes pass quicker than he thinks. 

Alexia startles him a little, a little, “ _ Quoi? _ ” startled out of him, at her sudden presence again. 

“I found it!” She sing-songs, and hides the book behind her back. 

“Can I see?” Arthur asks, and she shakes her head, smiling. 

“You, first.” She says. 

“Okay.” He offers his choice, “ _ Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? _ ” He speaks the title in English, but he has the French translation copy in his hands. “From 1968. Post-apocalyptic.” He says. 

“Is that all description I get?” Alexia asks. Arthur nods. “Okay, I guess.” She takes the book with one hand, and offers her choice to him with her other. 

He takes it, before she even explains. “ _ Simon versus the Homo Sapien Agenda _ .” Alexia says, “Have you heard of it?” She asks, “They made a movie,  _ Love, Simon _ ?” 

“It sounds familiar.” He says. 

“It’s about a closeted gay kid, and he exchanges emails this other boy, and they fall in love, but there’s  _ dramaaaaaa  _ along the way.” She explains. 

“Okay.” Arthur nods. “Exciting.” He leans down and kisses Alexia again. Alexia smiles into the kiss. 

They go and check out, after a minute, and M. Michaud does give them a discount.

Alexia pulls a foot up onto her chair, propping her book against her knee, which presses against the side of the table, and chews on her thumb while she reads. 

Arthur doesn’t get more than a couple pages into his book, because he can’t take his eyes off of her. 

His coffee goes cold. 

July.  _ July  _ is a good month. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amélie is 12 and Ophélie is 10! i will die on this hill :)


	4. four.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> !!! warning!! bc this chapter is pretty heavy: arthur has a panic attack in relation to a past "relationship" aka the 34 yr old woman he mentions in s3, and gets pretty upset. he's working on dealing with the reality of the situation between them, and he's having a hard time. there's nothing explicit about them, but def proceed with caution.

July is a good month.

August. August, is a bad month. 

Or, August is a good month until he and Alexia try to take their relationship to the next level, to her room, and sex and all that. 

It’s all good until that. 

It’s all  _ so  _ good. 

Until it’s all  _ so  _ bad.

“Good boy, Artie, good boy.” Alexia doesn’t  _ know _ . Alexia says it with a teasing tone, a little chuckle in her voice, almost a mockery of people who talk like that in bed, and he’s propped up against her pillows, them both in their underwear, and she’s  _ so fucking beautiful _ . She presses at his chest a little, and pushes him more into the pillows, makes a move to kiss him again, and doesn’t  _ know  _ that her words make his limbs go numb, and an icy chill race under his skin. 

_ Arthur, you understand....  _

_ Artie, Artie, Artie _ .  _ Don’t tell anyone _ . 

“Stop, wait.” He manages to choke out, eyes squeezing shut. He sounds afraid and his voice almost breaks, and there’s a horrible, horrible lump in his throat, and it makes him not be able to breathe. 

“Arthur?” Alexia stops. She sounds afraid. “Hey, I’m sorry.” She apologizes immediately. 

“Sorry.” He echoes, “Sorry, it’s okay.” He clenches his hand in the sheets of her bed. “It’s okay, keep going.” His voice somehow gets away from him. 

_ Artie, Artie, Artie.  _

“I don’t think so.” Alexia says. 

_ It doesn’t count if you’re....  _

His jaw clenches, and he catches the inside of his cheek, but it’s okay, because it clears his head a bit, the sharp bite of pain. 

“Arthur?” Alexia says again, and she’s moving, he can feel the mattress tilting a little. “Arthur, can you look at me?” His breath catches in his throat. 

_ Artie, Artie, Artie _ . Only  _ she  _ called him that. No one else. 

She. 

Not Alexia. Alexia hasn’t done anything wrong. 

_ She _ . 

“Arthur, how can I help you?” Alexia says, and he feels horrible, because he’s probably scaring her, but he can’t find his voice, he just  _ can’t _ . His other hands balls in the sheets, on his other side. “Please, even just --” 

“Baz.” He manages to choke out. Who else? 

Oh, god, he can’t fucking breathe. He thinks he’s shaking. 

He hasn’t thought about this. He hasn’t thought about this, since Eliott said,  _ Hey, you know that wasn’t right? Do you understand?  _

“Okay.” Alexia stands, and he can vaguely hear her moving around, and she’s probably dressing. He squeezes his eyes closed more, and he tries to catch his breath, tries, desperately, to catch his breath. “I’m going to be right outside, alright? I’m not going anywhere, I’m calling Basile.” She tells him, but her voice sounds far away, and the click of her door as she opens it sounds far away. She’s out of the room, and he breaks a little, a little whimper that makes him hate himself leaks out, and he’s covering his mouth with a balled fist. Curling onto his side, trying to hide away. 

He’s okay. He’s okay.

_ Artie, Artie, Artie. Good boy. Good boy.  _

He’s going to be sick. 

His hand presses against his mouth, keeping himself quiet. His other arm comes up to cover over his face, burying against his elbow. He feels hot and cold and sick and empty and it’s just  _ bad _ . 

“Arthur?” Alexia’s voice is back, and her door clicks closed. “Oh --  _ fuck _ .” 

He’s ruining their day. Alexia’s day, their  _ date _ , and he’s really hating himself. 

“Arthur, what can I do?” Alexia asks again, and Arthur just doesn’t fucking  _ know _ . “Basile said he’d be here in about fifteen, are you going to be okay?” 

He has to be, he doesn’t have a choice. Basile can’t get here any quicker. 

“Yes.” He manages, and his voice is a horrible, horrible, dry echo of his normal voice. 

Turned away from her, hand pressed hard against his mouth, because he would prefer  _ not  _ to sob. He doesn’t do this. He doesn’t break down. He  _ doesn’t. _ He can’t. 

_ That wasn’t okay. You understand? You understand?  _ Eliott’s voice. 

_ It’s okay, be quiet for me, Artie _ . Her voice.

He shaking, and his skin feels wrong, and he’s hot and he’s cold and it’s probably the longest and shortest fifteen minutes of his life.

Before the door flies open, slams against the wall, with Basile’s sweeping loudness. 

“Art?” Basile’s voice is worried and loud, but it’s  _ Basile _ and it calms him, just minutely, but it makes him break again. “Oh, god.” Arthur presses his hand against his mouth again, but the sob breaks out, anyway. “Fuck.” 

He’s going to be sick.

Basile doesn’t ask  _ what can I do?  _ Basile isn’t gentle and delicate, but that’s okay, because that’s not Basile. Instead, he’s on the bed, scooping Arthur up and trying to look at him, understand, even as Arthur tries to hide, and pull away, even though he asked for Basile. He breaks a little more, and since he’s not covering his face, anymore, not with Basile’s hands on the side of his face, trying to look at him, even if Arthur won’t open his eyes. 

Basile isn’t gentle, and doesn’t treat him delicately, but he’s kind and  _ Basile _ , and Arthur cries, against Basile’s shoulder, and Basile wraps him up in a tight, tight hug, holding Arthur half in his lap, on Alexia’s bed, and Arthur grips Basile’s shirt tightly, and  _ sobs _ . 

Basile shushes him, lightly, and rocks him a little, and holds the back of Arthur’s head to hold him against his chest. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay, Arthur. It’s okay.” Basile tells him, again and again. “You’re okay, I promise, you’re okay.” He says. “You’re okay.” He murmurs, and his hand ruffles Arthur’s hair a little, gently. “You’re okay.” 

He can’t breathe, but he can’t stop crying, and he keeps hearing  _ Artie, Artie, Artie _ . 

God, he really is pathetic, isn’t he?

“How do you feel about laying down, Art, it might help?” Basile says, quietly. He manages to nod, enough that Basile can feel it, “Alright, alright.” Basile says, and he keeps his arms right around Arthur, and he feels safe with Basile. 

Him and Basile. Basile and him. 

It’s like Yann and Lucas. Lucas and Yann. 

Basile helps him lay down in Alexia’s bed, laying next to him, and keeps him close, holding him tightly. He runs his hand over Arthur’s hair, and rubs his back. 

He feels safe, but then, he feels naked and cold and it makes him shake again, tries to turn his head, and bite back tears and sobs. 

“I need to get dressed.” He chokes out, and there’s a ripple of cold heat that goes through him, and he’s embarrassed, and embarrassed. 

“Okay, I brought you sweatpants, if you want.” Basile says, and it makes Arthur want to cry  _ more _ . “Alright, let’s sit up.” And he helps Arthur sit up, again, because Arthur is weak and stupid and falling to pieces. 

Alexia moves around a bit, and says, “I’m going to put the clothes on the bed.” As if she has to narrate all of her actions or he’s going to freak out again. He wants to say  _ It’s not you, it’s not you, I swear _ , but he’s finding it hard to talk, right now. 

He feels sick. He’s going to be sick. 

He pulls away from Basile, and rubs at his face, opening his eyes, and everything is a bit too bright for a moment, and he looks up at Alexia, who’s sitting across the room, blurry without his glasses on. He looks over at Basile, close-up, and looking fucking  _ scared _ . 

He might throw up.

Instead, he pulls on sweatpants. Pulls on the t-shirt that Basile brought. 

Sobs. Presses his elbows against his thighs, lets his face fall into his hands, and Basile pulls him in to hug him again. Arthur holds his hands over his face as Basile pulls him in to hold him tight again. 

“It’s okay, Arthur, you’re okay.” He says, again. “Let’s lay down.” Basile says, “You’re okay.” Arthur lets him manhandle him, and Alexia’s pillow is soft, and it smells like her, and he’s trying to calm down. He’s really, really trying to calm down. 

A sob. One that makes his whole body shake, because he wants to stop crying, so badly, and it makes him more upset that he can’t. 

“I’m sorry.” He gasps out, but it’s muffled, through his hands, against Basile’s chest, but he thinks that Basile understands anyway. 

“It’s okay, don’t worry, Arthur. Don’t worry, it’s okay.” Basile says again. And again. And again. 

At least, after he cries himself to sleep, which he hasn’t done since he was probably five or six, his body evens out his breathing, naturally. His body calms him down, because his brain doesn’t think anymore. 

He doesn’t think he falls asleep for very long, but it resets him a little. He’s breathing properly, when he’s woken up to the slow movement of Basile’s chest, the rumble of his voice that he feels more than hears. 

( _ “Has this happened before? Do you know why it happened?” Alexia asks, and Basile doesn’t have an answer. Basile just does what he can, and what he can do right now is let Arthur sleep against his chest, comb through his hair, and hope he calms down. _

_ “No. I don’t know why it happened.” He says, and he’s worried that Alexia isn’t going to take him seriously.  _ **_No one_ ** _ takes him seriously, even when he  _ **_tries_ ** _ to be serious. He’s being deadly serious now, probably top moments of him being serious in his whole life. “I’ve never -- seen him like this.” Basile speaks softly, because he doesn’t want to risk waking Arthur up.  _

_ “I don’t think any of us have.” Alexia speaks just as quietly. “I don’t know what happened. I don’t --” She stops, looks down at her hands, and she seems to be replaying events from before Basile showed up. “Oh...” Alexia mumbles. “Fuck.” She seems to catch the moment. “Oh, Basile,  _ **_fuck_ ** _.” She says, looking up at him. “Fuck.” She says again, and he needs her to fucking  _ **_explain_ ** _.  _

_ “What?” He bites his tongue, carefully,  _ **_carefully_ ** _ keeping his volume controlled. “Alex, come on.”  _

_ “Has anyone ever called him  _ **_Artie_ ** _?” Alexia asks, and Basile has to chuckle, because Arthur is  _ **_not_ ** _ an  _ **_Artie_ ** _. He’s Arthur, or Art. Nothing else.  _

_ “No.”  _

_ “I did. It’s -- it’s my fault. I’m sorry, it’s my fault, I think -- I called him that, and I don’t know what happened, but I think that ... caused it...” Alexia is getting herself worked up, worried, and upset, and Basile can’t help  _ **_both_ ** _ of them, right now.  _

_ “It’s not your fault, it’s not.” He tries. “We just won’t say that anymore, yeah?” He says, and she nods. “Just breathe.” He can’t do much else, and he feels bad, and he tries so hard to be a good friend to everyone. Alexia nods, and takes some deep breaths in, exhales deep breaths out.  _

_ “I really hope this hasn’t happened, before.” Basile voices it, and Alexia makes to say something _ .) 

“Hasn’t.” Arthur has found his voice, slowly waking from that strangely-deep post-cry sleep. “It hasn’t happened before.” Arthur only hears the last bit, the  _ I hope this hasn’t happened before _ . 

“Hey.” Basile says, quietly, ruffling Arthur’s hair gently. 

“Daphy is going to be pretty jealous, seeing us like this.” His voice is rough and still a bit choked up, but it’s more residual, and he clears his throat. It makes Basile laugh, and he counts that as a win. He takes a moment, and he’s pushing himself up, pushing away from Basile a bit. “I can’t afford to face her wrath.” He teases, and his tone falls a bit flat, in this room, with the two people who saw him break down. 

He tries to sit up, and look at Alexia, but he feels shaky and weak, and his head drops, even as he sits up, legs over the side of her bed. His elbows rest on his thighs again, and his head drops into his hands.

“You okay?” Basile sits up, and it would all be so fucking funny; it looks like they’ve bad a bad one night stand, and Alexia interrupted them, and now Basile is sitting up behind him, and it would all be so funny if it weren’t all so awful. He nods, even if they know that he’s not okay. 

“I’m sorry.” He says. And he wants to repeat it again and again. 

“It’s okay.” Alexia’s voice. A little echo-y throughout her room. “It’s okay, Arthur.” 

Except it’s not. Not really. It’s not okay. That flush of hot-cold embarrassment races through him again. Basile’s hand is hesitant, but rests on Arthur’s back, rubbing a circle. He bites his lip, because he’s done crying, he doesn’t think he actually  _ can  _ cry anymore. He feels like he’s running on some sort of sick emptiness. That he didn’t expect to have. 

They let him sit there for a couple minutes, and he tries not to think about anything but keep himself calm, keep himself  _ semi _ -calm, keep himself from shaking or crying again. He presses his palms against his eyes, and straightens himself up. Takes a deep breath, and opens his eyes. 

He can do this. He can keep himself together.

“Are you blurry because I’ve been crying, or just because I don’t have my glasses?” He tries to joke, again, looking over at Alexia. 

“Both?” She offers back, and Arthur manages a choked laugh. 

He rubs at his face again, and he wants all the tears gone, all trace of the tears gone. He clears his throat again. 

He’s okay, he’s okay. 

“Art?” Basile shifts, and he’s moving to sit next to Arthur on the bed, kicking at his foot. “Can I ask...?” 

“Basile...” Alexia’s voice sounds like a warning. 

“I’m not stupid, Alexia.” Basile says, and Arthur knows that he’s trying to control the volume of his voice, he’s doing his best to keep it restrained, keep it as his  _ inside voice _ . “I know what I’m doing.” Basile’s knee bounces, his shoe sole tapping against the floor with every bounce. 

There’s just that sound in the room for a minute. 

“You want to know why, right?” Arthur finally says, and his chest tightens, and his fingers feel like they need to grab a hold of something. 

“Yeah.” From Basile, and, 

“Only if you want to.” From Alexia, words interposed over each other’s. 

Arthur bites his lip. 

Basile bounces his leg. 

Alexia’s desk chair squeaks. 

He’s going to throw up if he says it. 

“You don’t have to,” Basile says, quietly, “But it helps, so we know not to say and - or do it again.” Arthur chews his lip. He takes a deep breath. 

“You -- you called me --” He can’t say it, he thinks he’s going to throw up. 

“Ar--” 

“Don’t say it.” He’s quick.  _ Please _ .

“Okay, sorry.” Alexia says. “Sorry. I won’t.” And, “I didn’t know.” 

“No one does, it’s okay.” He chews his lip, again, once he speaks. 

“Do you want to say why?” Basile asks.

“No.” Arthur is even quicker to say that, doesn’t even let Basile finish the question. 

“Okay.” Basile replies. 

Basile bounces his leg.

Arthur chews his lip.

Alexia’s desk chair squeaks.

“I want to go home.” He says, quietly. 

He feels like a little kid. 

He got scared at a sleepover, calling his mom to take him home way too early. 

“Okay.” Alexia says, “Let’s get your stuff.” She’s handing him his phone, his glasses, so quickly, he almost feels like she  _ wants  _ him gone. But he gets his glasses on, and he’s managing to shove his phone into the pocket of his sweatpants. 

“Oh, sorry.” He mutters, without meaning. He stands up, and feels a little shaky, but he’s not going to show it. He keeps chewing his lip. Alexia is packing up his backpack, and he  _ really  _ feels like a dumb kid who can’t keep it together to stay over at a friend’s house. 

His backpack is zipped up, and she comes over to stand in front of him, offering it to him. He takes it, and swings it onto his back. 

“I’m sorry.” He says, again, because he has to. 

“It’s okay, Arthur, don’t worry.” Alexia catches his eye, and smiles at him. “I just want you to feel safe, okay? I’m sorry for calling you that, I didn’t know. It won’t happen again.” She promises. He nods. He believes her. “Can I hug you?” She asks, quietly. He nods again. She wraps her arms around him, tightly, and presses a kiss to the side of his face. 

He hugs her back, and catches his breath, steadies himself where Basile and Alexia can’t see his face. 

He’s okay. He’s always okay. He has to be okay.

“Alright.” He whispers. Alexia pulls back, and smiles at him. Her arms drop away, down to her sides. “I’ll text you when I get home?” He says, and swings the other strap of his backpack onto his other shoulder. 

“Sounds good. Make sure you drink lots of water, and get some rest, okay?” She says. He nods. 

“Don’t worry about him, I’ll tuck him in myself, if I have to.” Basile says, and it breaks the tension a little. Arthur scoffs, and Basile laughs, and he laughs his normal, loud, boisterous laugh. 

“See you, later.” Alexia says, as she lets them out, the door closing quietly behind them. Arthur lets out a deep breath, once it’s just him and Basile. 

“You okay?” Basile says, quietly. 

“ _ Quoi? _ ” Arthur says, turning towards him. 

“I said,  _ are you okay _ ?” Basile repeats. Arthur nods, and starts walking, shifting so that he’s on the left side of the corridor. 

“Thank you, for coming.” Arthur says, and Basile knocks his shoulder into Arthur’s.

“Of course.” 

It’s been them, since they were ten. 

Arthur and Basile. Basile and Arthur. 

“Sorry, about it.” Arthur says, as they start down the stairs.

“Don’t worry.” Basile says. 

“Still, sorry.” 

“If you don’t stop apologizing, I’m pushing you down the stairs.” Basile deadpans, and Arthur laughs. Even if it sounds a little weak, and not quite like himself. 

“Okay. But thank you, again.” 

“Shut up.” Basile says, but it’s light-hearted, and he’s swinging an arm over Arthur’s shoulders, pulling him in a bit, and they’re going to fall down the stairs if Basile doesn’t let go of him. 

“Never.” 

They sit on the bus, going back to Arthur’s and Arthur still feels fucking  _ exhausted _ , leaning forward on his thighs, elbows pressed against them. His chin sits in his hands, and he stares at the empty seats across from them. 

“If you want to talk, I  _ am  _ good at listening.” Basile says, and he’s leaning back, resting his head against the back of the seat. 

“I know.” Arthur says. “I just can’t, though.” He says. 

“Okay.” Basile replies. It’s quiet, between them for a minute. The other people on the bus hold their conversations, the sound of the bus moving keeps from utter silence. 

“I --” Arthur bites his lip. He sits up, and leans back and elbows Basile gently. 

“Hey!” Basile protests. “Mean. I come  _ all this way _ , and you treat me like this?” It makes Arthur laugh, and Basile smiles at him. 

It’s them. Him and Basile, since they were ten.

He wants to tell him, wants to say what he thinks is wrong. But he’s not sure what his reaction would be, and he wants to maybe  _ not  _ break down on the bus. 

“You can tell me anything, Art. And I’ll keep it a secret.” Basile says, once they’ve gone by a couple more streets.

“I know.” Arthur says. 

“If I were gay, I’d date you.” Basile says, and Arthur can’t do anything but laugh. 

“Fuck off.” Basile’s laughing, too, though. 

“I’m serious.” 

“So you’re breaking up with Daphné? Are we going to have an awkward talk?” Arthur is thankful for Basile. His ability to break the tension, make him joke and feel a little lighter. 

“In ten years, if we’re both single, we are getting married, right?” Basile says, and Arthur elbows him again. “Okay, I’ll go buy the promise rings tonight.” 

“ _ Fuck off _ .” Arthur says again. 

“Promise... necklaces?” Basile offers. 

“God, I hate you.” He mutters, but he’s nudging Basile’s shoulder with his own.

“Nah, you love me.” Basile says, “Come here.” He throws his arm around Arthur’s shoulder, and pulls him in to give him a bit of a hug. 

“Yeah, I love you, Baz.” He mumbles, and Basile ruffles his hair. 

“I know.” Basile says, faux-smug. 

“You want me to come up with you?” Basile asks, once they’re in front of Arthur’s building. Arthur bites his lip. Arthur shrugs. “I can, you know your mom loves me.” Arthur hesitates. 

“Maybe for a few?” Arthur says, finally, and Basile grins. 

“Great.” Basile hits the stairs two-at-a-time, and Arthur laughs. It makes him feel just that much lighter. 

“Wait, come on.” He tries to catch up, but he’s still a bit tired, so he just trudges up the stairs. 

The lights are off when he gets inside, “Mamma?” He calls out. No one replies. He flicks a light on, and finds the note on the counter, saying she and the girls went out. 

“Do you want to watch a movie, or something?” Basile offers, wandering around a bit, finding his way to the fridge to dig through a little, finding a soda. He cracks it open. “Take your mind off shit?” 

Arthur shrugs, taking his shoes off in the entryway. 

Arthur texts Alexia quickly:  _ Got home. Basile is currently stealing things from me _ . 

“I think I’m just going to sleep?” He shoves his hands in his pants pockets. Basile leans against the counter. He nods, seriously. 

“Okay.” And then he grins, “I see how it is... kicking out your future husband.” Arthur chuckles, rolling his eyes.

“We’re not going to get married, Baz.” Arthur leans against the back of one of the tall chairs that sit in front of the counter. 

“I’m heartbroken. I’m leaving. Goodnight. Don’t call me.” Basile says, and he’s moving towards the door. 

“Baz, wait.” Arthur says, quickly.

“I’m not actually leaving, don’t worry.” Basile replies. He stops, and he frowns a little, looking at Arthur. Arthur feels that ripple of shame slide under his skin. 

“Just --” Arthur bites his lip. Basile seems to understand, because he’s there, in a second. Wraps his arms around Arthur, and Arthur falls against him, wrapping his arms around Basile. 

“Hey, you’re okay. I can stay, if you want.” Arthur nods, because he doesn’t trust his voice, again on the verge of breaking, because he can feel the knot in his throat. Basile sways them a little, a quiet shushing. “It’s okay.” 

Basile gets him into his room. Sets Arthur’s bag down on the desk chair, and gets Arthur’s bed covers opened up for him. Gets Arthur to put his phone and his glasses down on his nightstand.

Arthur feels like such a dumb kid. But he’s so fucking  _ tired _ . He lets Basile help him. Lets Basile literally tuck him into bed. 

“You want to watch something?” Basile has somehow found  _ his  _ way under Arthur’s covers, and he would once again, laugh at this whole endeavor, but he just wants to sleep, and he wants things to not be fucked up, and he’s just  _ tired _ . 

“I don’t care.” 

“Okay.” Basile says, and Arthur lets his eyes fall shut. 

“You shut the light off, right? In the kitchen?” His eyes pop back open. 

“No, fuck, sorry. I’ll go do that, okay? You, close your fucking eyes.” Basile points at him, almost getting his feet tangled in Arthur’s bedsheets, nearly tumbles onto his face onto Arthur’s bedroom floor. Basile leaves for half a minute, and Arthur closes his eyes.

It’s okay.

He’s okay.

If anything, Basile is here.

It’s him and Basile, since they were ten. 

Basile comes back, jumping on the bed, and doing his best to lighten the air again. 

“Fuck you, Baz.” Arthur mutters, turning and burying his face against the pillow. 

“Love you, too, Art.” Basile gets back under the covers. “I’m spooning you. No complaints, today.” Arthur groans, and makes a face, pushes at Basile, but Basile bats his hands away. A moment, and Arthur expects Basile to go ahead, wrap his arms around Arthur again, without any other fanfare.

He doesn’t.

“Okay, actually, only if you’re okay with it.” Basile says, quietly. 

“I --” He mumbles. Trails off. 

“I’ll be here, yeah? I’m not going anywhere.” Basile tells him. Shifts enough so that his side is pressed against Arthur’s back. “I’m here.” 

Him and Basile. 

Since they were ten. 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr @evenbchnsheim


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